


up the stairs he would carry me

by thegreatpumpkin



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 06:33:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10530876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/pseuds/thegreatpumpkin
Summary: Loosely set in victoriousscarf's Secrets/Whiskey 'verse. Aulë attends a wedding and reminisces with Durin.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Leave Your Secrets and Kiss the Whiskey from My Lips](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3377786) by [victoriousscarf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/victoriousscarf/pseuds/victoriousscarf). 



Their guest had come in unannounced and unexpected; even Durin didn't mark him immediately in the crowd, though he should have stood out like a sore thumb, not least because Durin knew everyone personally and was related to most of them in some fashion or another. This visitor wasn't a frequent sight these days, at least not from a short distance and without a podium in front of him, but he did still have a standing invitation.

It wasn't until the dancing started, the shifting patterns of people opening up and closing again in new ways, that Durin realized it was unusual for him to be here. No need to rush; the man would come, when he was ready.

He made his way over, eventually, as Durin knew he would. "Long time since we've seen you around, Mahal."

"Long time since I've been called that," Aulë said, nodding in greeting. They stood in silence for a moment, then he shook his head, a smile unfolding slowly across his face. "Little Red getting married. I can hardly believe it. I can still remember the kid spitting up all over my good suit."

Funny to think about a time when he'd only had one good suit. Durin wondered if Aulë looked at him and still saw a boy in knee pants, or if he at least had the dignity of being remembered as a teenager. Then again, he wasn't sure he had room to talk—with Aulë here in the room, he was half-expecting to see his father standing beside him, both of them the age Durin was now, Aulë with no gray hair at all and his father with only a touch at the temples and in streaks through his beard.

"We didn't expect you," he said at last, just to shake the strange vertigo of staring back through time. Part of him wanted to say, _since you've forgotten about us now that you're running the city_ , but it wasn't fair—nor was it very true, considering how ornamental the mayoral position was getting these days. It was men like Durin who were running the city now, or their own little pieces of it at least—and it wasn't as if he'd exactly been clamoring for attention to land on his own doings.

Aulë put his hands in his pockets, looking out over the celebrating crowd. "It's harder now." Durin thought he'd make the usual excuses, or even admit how bad it looked for him to be seen amidst the city's seedier elements, but he did neither. "You've really built something here, son. It's more than your old man ever dreamed of, and he'd be beyond proud. Hell, _I'm_ beyond proud, even if I want plausible deniability on the details. But with him gone...I keep looking for the space where he used to be, and instead it's like I'm standing in a city he's never been in."

"You miss him," Durin said neutrally, a question and not a question.

"I'd drop my re-election campaign and sell everything I owned tomorrow if it meant he'd be hammering at my door ready to pick a fight again." Despite the grin, Aulë's tone was only half-joking; Durin sensed something of his own sadness underneath it. They had argued, constantly and cheerfully, about _everything_ —theology to tax policy to the merits of cigar brands.

Durin offered him an olive branch, of a sort. "He would have hated your Fourth of July speech. What a load of meaningless dreck."

Aulë laughed, surprised and delighted. "Nobody wants substance on the Fourth of July. They want a picnic and pyrotechnics."

"They want someone to tell them the country's not shit, and mean it." Durin folded his arms, but he was smiling. "Guess that's too tall an order for you, though."

"Hell, you sound just like him. I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.” Aulë shook his head and clapped Durin on the shoulder, warmly. “Listen, kid, this is your world. Not mine, and not your dad’s.”

Which was an exceedingly polite fiction, given he'd been the one to give them their start when they'd first come over, and none of the rest of it could have happened without that—but then again, Aulë had never been one to hold it over their heads. Unlike anyone else who’d ever offered to do them a good turn in this goddamn city. 

“I don't think I'll be back,” Aulë went on. “Not unless it's you under the chuppah next time.”

Durin was surprised by the sudden sense of loss. “Mahal—”

Aulë smiled and shook his head. “You won't miss me. You've got your own constituents, in a way.” His expression went earnest, almost hard. “But I want you to know that if you ever need something, I'm there. Not for business, of course, I can't get involved in that. But for _you_ , personally—anything.”

Durin wouldn't take him up on it, but it still hung there between them; he had no doubt it was an offer made in good faith. 

“I'll remember that.”

Aulë squeezed his shoulder one last time and nodded, satisfied with the answer. “Tell Little Red mazel tov for me.” And then he was gone, melting back into the crowd as seamlessly as if he _did_ belong—even if that might never be true again.


End file.
